


Remembered Comfort

by inatrice (orphan_account)



Series: Scenes of Seeming Unimportance [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Kisses, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/inatrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a nightmare and Sherlock comforts him the only way he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembered Comfort

John's eyes snapped open. That dream had been too real. He raised his head and sucked in a breath as the last remnants of the dream still clinging to his consciousness like a cobweb.

He'd had plenty of nightmares before, but this one had been obscene. And Sherlock had been there. Christ, none of them had happened like that before. There had been blood and guns and bombs, old news, but the addition of Sherlock was new and definitely unwelcome.

John let out a slow steadying breath, heels of his hands pressing hard into his eyes. When he pulled his hands away he felt dampness. He mumbled under his breath as a lump formed in his throat. He glanced at the clock, 2:30. At least he didn't have to go into work tomorrow. John tried to slow his heart by taking a few more deep breaths and looked around his room. His heart clenched as he saw a tall shadow by his door. The shadow straightened up.

"John?" A soft baritone voice came.

"Shit," John breathed. "Sherlock, how long have you been there?"

Sherlock hesitated, staying in the shadows by the door. "About five minutes." Another pause. "You were making quite a racket, John."

John shook his head. "Christ, I'm sorry, Sherlock." He was glad his voice was even. The tightness in his throat didn't seem to be going away. "I didn't mean to wake you." He felt guilty.

"Please," Sherlock said quietly, a sneer plain in his voice. "I wasn't sleeping." Sherlock's shape seemed to sag a little and there was a momentary awkward silence before the man nearly whispered, "I haven't slept in nearly three days."

John sat up quickly, all thoughts relating to his dream slipping away as concern for his best friend clouded his mind. How did Sherlock continue to function on so little sleep? A brain like his had to require more rest than he'd been giving it. "Sherlock, you okay?" No response. "There has to be a reason you're not sleeping. You're not even on a case right now." Still nothing, though John could hear the other man's breath hitch.

"Stop worrying so much about me, John." Sherlock muttered finally. John could see Sherlock's shape straighten once more, pulling his dressing gown around him tightly. Sherlock came forward to the edge of John's bed, leaning towards him. "I came in here to make sure you were all right." Sherlock stated, moonlight hitting his eyes and turning them a striking pale grey. "Your nightmares worry me sometimes." Sherlock moved his face a little closer. "You have them more often than you realize." His eyes narrowed, gauging any and all reactions that flitted across John's face. John felt his breath catch in his throat and he was suddenly very aware that he only had on an undershirt and boxers. "What do you dream about, John?" Sherlock rumbled, almost to himself.

John swallowed and licked his lips. "Uh, well," Thoughts of the dream he'd just had slid into the foreground of his mind. He took in a sharp breath. "Mostly, uh," Sherlock leaned in a little closer, eyes narrowing further, lips twitching in thought. John's eyes froze there. Oh those lips, full and perfect, God they looked so smooth.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted, a slight impatience breaking through his pensive mask.

John shook his head once to clear his head. "Mostly about the war, sorry." John looked at his hands. He'd hardly told his therapist about his nightmares. They seemed too clichéd. "Guns and fighting. There's usually a lot of blood and I …" John shuddered as a sudden realization hit him. He closed his eyes tight, hands gripping the sheets around him. "I can't help them, Sherlock." The tightness was returning to his throat, and John willed his voice not to crack, not in front of a being as unwavering as Sherlock. "The people are hurt and dying and I know how to help them, but my hands. I can't make them do what I need them to do to help all of these people." John took in a ragged breath.

"Go on," Sherlock said gently. John could feel him lowering himself onto the bed, could feel the heat radiating from his best friend. He felt a hand hovering over his thigh, hesitating, not sure if the gesture would be welcome but then finally deciding to hell with the consequences. Sherlock's hands were on him, in an awkward way, but John could feel the comfort they were supposed to be bringing; one on his thigh, the other squeezing into his shoulder.

"Jesus and the one about my wound." John could hear his voice growing higher with the lump in his throat turning painful. "It's all too much. The sheer volume of the gun fire, the shouts of men falling around me. And the pain. God, the pain is the worst, Sherlock." John's voice finally cracked on the final word. He drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around them, burying his head between his body and legs. He needed to feel solid again, get a grip on himself. He could feel Sherlock's hands fluttering around him, unsure of what to do, how to help. Finally, Sherlock pulled himself fully onto John's bed and folded himself around his friend. Such an intimate act shocked John and something broke in his chest and a sob escaped though his lips.

"Shh, John," Sherlock cooed, running a hand through John's hair. "It's all right, now. Nothing else is going to hurt you, I promise." Sherlock's arms tightened around John's shoulders as another sob ripped though him. "I won't let anything harm you." Sherlock growled and John believed him.

John took in a deep steadying breath and willed his body to come back under his control. After a minute, all that John had left were sniffles. He could feel himself being gently rocked as Sherlock pressed his face into the nape of his neck. Within a few heart beats John could hear Sherlock humming softly. John almost fell over at the prospect of Sherlock treating him like such a child. He was about to push the man away in disgust when a thought hit him. Perhaps this was the only way Sherlock knew how to fix nightmares. Surely this was how … whoever came to a young Sherlock's aid would have handled it. Maybe this sort of comfort was the last Sherlock had ever let himself receive and therefore all he knew when trying to comfort others. John felt his posture soften and let himself relax. He took Sherlock's hands in his own, interlocking their fingers, letting his best friend know that yes, this was helping. Sherlock rocked the two of them softly to the beat of the nursery rhyme. John could barely make out the words that Sherlock was whispering under his breath.

When the rhyme was over John raised his head. Sherlock looked at him, concern showing on his angular features for a fraction of a second. "There now," Sherlock said to him softly, moving his head closer to John's. "Feeling better, love?" Sherlock placed a kiss softly on John's forehead without seeming to realize his actions or the words he'd said. But the lack of realization lasted less than a second before a look of embarrassment over took his features. Yes, John decided, this had been the ritual Sherlock's caretaker had used to calm him in his youth. Any shock John would have felt was chased away with the knowledge that Sherlock was only using what he knew.

An embarrassed breath escaped through Sherlock's nose and he tried to pull away, the beginnings of an apology forming on his heart shaped lips. John kept his hands tight around Sherlock's. He was quite enjoying the comforting heat of another person, thank you very much. "Please," He heard himself whisper. "Stay?"

Sherlock's breath was shallow and he had a flustered look on his face that he wasn't hiding very well, but he nodded. John felt a smile creep across his face and his heart leapt when Sherlock returned it with a small smile of his own. John lay back into his bed, hands still entwined with Sherlock's, pulling the other man down with him, letting himself stay in Sherlock's embrace. He was reminded of the night they'd gone to a club a few weeks ago. This was better than drunken cuddling by a long shot.

John snuggled into the welcome heat of his companion. God it had been a while since his bed had been warmed by someone he didn't plan on throwing out in the morning. There was no need to try and impress this body, no need to force himself upon it in an attempt to try and live up to some crazy expectations, there was just companionship and it was the best feeling. Knowing he could be vulnerable and still rely on this heat tomorrow. Before he could help himself, John tilted his head up and kissed Sherlock's neck, whispering "Thank you."

He heard Sherlock's breath catch, again. He felt a slight shiver course through the other man. Sherlock tilted his own head down to press their foreheads together, their breath mingling, sending John's head spinning. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and he closed the inched between their lips, though he didn't kiss John.

"I can't promise to be here for every nightmare." Sherlock breathed, his soft lips, yes they were soft and smooth just as John had imagined, touching John's with every syllable. It was John's turn to shiver.

"Any effort is enough." John told him. His lips ached to kiss his companion. It was such an overwhelming need and it had come out of nowhere. He was overwhelmed, but, probably foolishly, he let his body control his mind. He brushed his lips against Sherlock's. "Please?" he whispered breathlessly. Before he could finish uttering the single syllable Sherlock pressed their lips together, chastely, sweetly, and God was it good.

John was surprised at how easily Sherlock's mouth moved with his own. He had no idea how experienced Sherlock was and at this point he didn't care. John pressed into Sherlock, intensifying the kiss and Sherlock reciprocated, a low noise coming from the back of his throat. John finally took his hands away from the other man's and framed Sherlock's face with them. He pulled away to look at his companion, nerves taking over his irrational actions. Sherlock's lips were parted slightly, his eyes, God what color were they even now, dark and a touch too sensual for John to handle at the moment. The gravity of his actions hit him like a bus. Fear overtook him. He wasn't supposed to have liked that kiss, wasn't supposed to have his belly doing summersaults, he liked women for God's sake. But as the other man's hands tangled into his short hair and moved his face closer for another taste, he realized that this was no ordinary man, this was Sherlock Holmes and nothing normal applied to anything about either of them.

"John, don't be afraid." Sherlock assured him quietly. "I promised to let nothing hurt you." Sherlock kissed the corners of John's mouth sweetly. "We don't have to do anything. Not unless you want to." Sherlock pulled back and looked him in the eye, pale eyes boring into his soul. "Whatever you want. Or don't want."

Those words rocked John. So Sherlock wanted this? Where had his selfish manipulation gone? John let out a chuckle. The mere admission that he was letting John control the situation was almost enough for John to say do what you will; I'm putty in your hands. But he knew he couldn't go that far yet. He wasn't sure what would happen, but he knew he needed to taste Sherlock again. John pulled his best friend towards him with a hunger even he didn't expect. Sherlock growled as his lips moved with John's, hands raking down John's back. John's tongue ran across Sherlock's lips before the other man parted them to let John explore his mouth. John's head was swimming. Everything about Sherlock just felt so right. He couldn't believe that Sherlock was letting him do this at all. This extraordinary man was opening up to him in ways he wasn't sure anyone had seen before. It sent John into a high that made his fingers tangle into Sherlock's dark curls roughly.

John let out a light groan as Sherlock rolled him onto his back. He was planting kisses all over John's jaw and down his neck. His nimble fingers were playing at the hem of John's undershirt, not wanting to over step their boundaries. Sherlock ran his nose down John's torso, breathing him in, stopping at the patch of skin where undershirt ended and boxers started. Sherlock looked up at John for permission.

John's head was shaking side to side before his brain could get the word 'no' to his lips, but once uttered, Sherlock raised his hands in surrender and brought himself back up to eye level.

"Sorry," John stumbled. "I just – it's so fast. I can't – I don't…"

Sherlock silenced John's poor attempt at a sentence with his lips. "No need to fret. We're doing this slowly." Sherlock met his eyes carefully. "If you're really wanting for things to move forward."

John closed his eyes and pushed his hands into his forehead. "I don't know what I want right now, Sherlock." He could feel Sherlock starting to move away, his eyes snapped open and panic filled his gut. His hands snapped out and grabbed Sherlock's T-shirt, pulling him close again. "I do know that I don't want to be alone right now." He breathed.

"I can do that." Sherlock answered. He lay back down and snaked his arms around John. John pressed his face into Sherlock, his heart rate slowing. Yes, this was good, John thought as his eyes became heavy again. Warmth poured into him, radiating from Sherlock like a beacon of hope, burning away all thoughts of those returning nightmares. John fell asleep content.

Sherlock wasn't there in the morning.


End file.
